


Pit In My Peach

by lalazee



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Angst, Character Development, Character Study, Comedy, Eventual Explicit Rating, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Romantic Comedy, so much food
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 03:23:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11751030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalazee/pseuds/lalazee
Summary: Hand on heart, Jack Zimmerman was the rotten pit in his peaches.Or, Jack Zimmerman is a mercilessly exacting head chef and owner of his own restaurant, Bitty is his newbie pastry chef whom he never wanted to hire in the first place, a lot of sexy food is had, and even more sex. But first, everything has to go south. And we don't mean The Bittle Household.





	Pit In My Peach

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This is the only fandom that has my name (Larisa - mine is with one 's') in it, ever, and this makes me happy. My nickname wouldn't work as cool as Lardo's though. Mine would just be Larsa, WHICH IS LITERALLY JUST MY NAME, SO. Lala is fine.  
> 2\. Let's suspend our belief of my French shall we? I am American with a British passport, and I speak English & Latvian lol.  
> 3\. Part two is like three times longer than part one, so WHOOPS, I LOVE YOU GUYS.  
> 4\. I'm on tumblr at atomicblonde.tumblr.com  
> 5\. Enjoy!

 

A sheen of sweat clung to Bitty’s brow, concentration a sharp, amber glint in his eyes.

“Faster,” Jack said, quick and clipped from over Bitty’s shoulder. The depth of his voice had Bitty’s heart crashing against his ribcage.

 _Faster_ , _faster_.

“ _Bitty_ ,” Jack said, looming behind Bitty, his mouth now closer to Bitty’s exertion-blushed ears.

“Almost,” Bitty said on a wobbly breath, his hand shaking through his exacting ministrations. “I’m so close.”

“If you don’t –”

“If ya’ll want it done right,” Bitty said with sass, wiping the back of his free hand across his forehead, “Then –”

“You’re getting paid to get it done right _and_ make the customer happy,” Jack said, stern and unyielding. “So finish these fucking desserts before they start _walking out_.”

“They’re done!” Bitty pushed away from his countertop, hands in the air, a little out of breath. “They’re done, take ‘em away. Lord Almighty.”

Bitty stepped back from his pristine, gorgeous cakes, a critical eye still surveying his work as a server swept them up onto a platter to be dashed to the dining room. Wiping his hands on his apron, Bitty decidedly ignored the giant dictator shadowing him.

Hand on heart, Jack Zimmerman was the rotten pit in his peaches.

“That wasn’t good enough,” Jack said, arms folded across his broad chest.

Fists on his slim hips, Bitty tilted his chin and eyed Jack narrowly.

“It’s my first week, Jack. I’m trying –”

“Listen,” Jack said, his eyes scanning the kitchen above Bitty’s head, mind clearly already on other things he needed to address, “There are chefs who would give anything to work in this kitchen. Lardo vouched for you.” He looked down his strong, chiseled nose at Bitty. “Prove to me why.”

Bitty bit back any number of sassy quips that threatened to spill forth. Jack had his own point to make. Lardo _had_ vouched for Bitty, seeing something in him as a patisserie chef that Jack had disregarded. No, Bitty hadn’t come out at the top of his class in savory cooking – but he’d blasted through desserts, found his niche, and had hopped fresh out of culinary school with hopes of finding a place just like this.

 _Laurent’s_ was a top five restaurant in Boston, and lauded for a future Michelin star. Jack Zimmerman was known for being robotically precise in his food, direct and simple in his presentation, and for having a work ethic like a military man. No doubt, he was following in his father’s infamous Iron Chef footsteps.

Bitty was unreasonably lucky to be here.

So, when the chef and owner of _Laurent’s_ , the one and only Jack Laurent Zimmerman, was in your face, telling you to do better, there was only one way you could ever reply.

“Yes, Chef,” Bitty said, shifting his feet and sliding his gaze away from Jack’s icy one.

There was a moment of terse silence, the kitchen clattering around them. Finally, Jack just nodded and strode away.

Bitty watched that mountainous back leave and released a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

“Oh my goodness,” he said softly, running a hand through his disarrayed hair.

Yes, he was lucky. Probably. Hopefully.

The remainder of service was spent cleaning his space. Bitty’s cooking tools were mainly his own. Utensils he held dear and took great pride in keeping pristine. Restaurant pastry chefs were often expected to bring their own things to the work place, and Bitty was as protective of his as anyone would be.

He could tell the final customer had left, when Shitty cranked the radio in the back, blasting all-American rock that made Bitty think of Georgia high-school football stars in rusty pickup trucks, dust kicking up down back roads.

Once his own space was pristine – and Jack would undoubtedly let him know if it wasn’t – Bitty skirted his way through the cramped kitchen and zeroed in on Lardo. She stood at a clean counter space, sharpening knives the length of her petite forearm. Lardo with knives was sobering enough to unnerve any sane person.

Bitty approached with a friendly smile.

“Can I help with anything?”

“ _Hm_?” Lardo looked up, clearly lost in thought. Once she she focused on Bitty, her lips quirked briefly. “Hey. No, I’m cool. You good? I saw the thing.”

“Oh, _that_ thing?” Bitty said with an easy laugh, waving it off with one hand. “You mean Jack tearing into me for the twentieth time this week? It’s fine, it’s fine – I’m just dandy. Maybe I won’t even have night terrors tonight.”

Lardo grinned mercilessly.

“You’ll get used to him. Or he’ll get used to you. One of the two.”

“I find the latter to be infinitely less plausible,” Bitty said dryly, twisting his apron strings around his fingers.

“I’m not worried about you,” Lardo said, gazing a little too lovingly at her knife set as she tucked one away.

“Thank you, Lardo,” Bitty said, unable to suppress his smile of amusement. “Have a good night.”

“’Night.”

Bitty headed towards the backroom, lowering his head to pull off his grubby apron so that when he passed the office, he wouldn’t have to make accidental eye contact with Jack. He passed by without incident, but from her periphery caught a glimpse of Jack squinting at his laptop screen with reading glasses perched upon his prominent nose.

If there was anything Bitty had gathered of Jack in the past week, it was that he worked three times harder than anyone else in this place. He also worked later, longer hours.

Bitty couldn’t help but wonder if he had any semblance of a social life. He’d never heard a word about that side of Jack’s life.

He supposed there had to be, though, since Chef Knight – Shitty – had attended culinary school with Jack and they came off as lifelong friends. Shitty was even trusted with the numbers, calculations, rent, and so forth of _Laurent’s_. Lardo was _sous_ _chef_ and, seemingly, ran the business end that involved buffering Jack’s blunt, often tactless communication skills.

So, Jack _did_ have friends. However they came to be.

“ _Bro_!” Ransom said empathetically as Bitty entered the tiny room lined with lockers, a lone card table and fold-out chairs, and a tiny drinks fridge. “Your plum and ginger _coulis_ today? Fuckin’ _slayed_. I coulda drank that straight.”

“ _Dude_ ,” Holster said, slamming his locker door and shrugging into a jean jacket. “Imagine mixing that shit with rum?”

“Fuuuck, man, I like the way you think.” Random grinned at Bitty. “Bottle that shit ‘n sell it.”

Bitty, comfortable enough around bros, thanks to Coach – and like, the entirety of his hometown – smiled brightly.

“Oh, you boys are too sweet to me. Thank you. I’m tryin’.”

“Keep it up,” Holster said with a thumb up. “You’re definitely better than the last guy here. Stick up his ass, old French dude who couldn’t modernize his recipes for shit.”

“He sounds charming,” Bitty said as he slipped on his thick, forest green peacoat. He couldn’t handle New England autumns. His bird bones were not built for this. “Well boys,” Bitty said as he shoved his dirty apron in a fashionable leather side satchel to bring home and wash. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for bed.”

“Oh no, you’re not,” Ransom said, suddenly popping up beside him and making Bitty jump.  He threw his arms around Bitty’s shoulders, slumping over Bitty’s back as if Ransom were about to get a piggyback ride from him. “You’re coming with us. We’ve got _plans_ for _you_ , bro.”

Bitty looked at Holster’s feral grin and felt his shoulders sag with inevitability.

“I suppose it would be totally needless of me to remind you that we have lunch service tomorrow?”

The raucous laughter was answer enough.

 

“I have… So many regrets,” Bitty said, his face buried in his folded arms, upon the flimsy card table in the break room. His everything hurt. “So many.”

“Probably shoulda warned ya,” Shitty said, shutting his locker door loud enough to send Bitty’s brain rattling around his skull. “Never go anywhere with those two unless you’re ready to get fuckin’ _sh’wasted_.”

Sh’wasted. Yes, that sounded about right.

Bitty whimpered.

“They had me upside down. There was a keg. What the hell club did they find that lets you do that?”

“I’ll make sure you sweat the alcohol off,” Jack said, standing the doorway when Bitty flung his head up in mild horror.

“I – uh, oh gosh, well –”

“Shouldn’t you be prepping?” Jack said, dramatic eyebrows raised expectantly.

Shitty slapped Jack on the back on his way out the door.

“Take it easy on the kid, brah. You got a good one, there.”

“We’ll see,” Jack said, his unreadable expression lingering on Bitty before he turned and fell in step with Shitty.

“Heavens to Betsy,” Bitty said into his arms.

 

Service was much the same as the night before, and the night after that, and for several days more. Bitty was fast, but never fast enough for Jack.  Bitty became too caught up in the details, in perfection, to release his food on time.

At the end of service, Jack had approached, his bright blue eyes like frozen lakes.

“Show improvement next week. If not, I’ll find someone with more experience.”

He walked away, leaving Bitty gaping.

Lord, if he didn’t dislike that man more than a hornet at a picnic.

Bitty was determined to get better, though. He would get better. Somehow.

With a hefty sigh to himself, Bitty began cleaning up his workstation.

“Wait,” came Jack’s voice from a distance. He strode back into the kitchen, his wide mouth firm and sober as he met Bitty’s. “Stop. You’re staying.”

“I –” Bitty looked around, watching everyone clear up. He stared helplessly up at Jack. “Staying?”

“With me,” Jack said. “We’re going to work on some things.”

Bitty glanced at his watch. It was quarter to eleven.

“I mean, sure? Sounds, um, lovely, Jack.”

“We’re not having a fucking tea party. We’re going to be working.”

“Yes, clearly,” Bitty said between the teeth of his smile.

“Help everyone else finish. Once they’re gone, we start.”

“Start what, exactly?”

Jack quirked an eyebrow.

“Training.”

 

Turned out, training consisted of practicing making that night’s desserts with the leftovers, as fast as humanly possible, while Jack basically yelled in his ear like a crazy sideline sport dad. Just to rub salt in the wound, Jack started the entire marathon by demonstrating just how fast _he_ could do Bitty’s job _for_ him.

That went on for a grueling week.

Jack and Bitty barely exchanged words during this time. Nothing that didn’t relate to work, anyway. Jack had a one track mind, and Bitty had to fall in line or get left on the roadside.

On the fifth day, a little past one in the morning, Bitty was wrapping up training, wiping down counters and the like.

His mind drifted to the days of culinary school. It had been brutal, but he’d kept up well enough. He’d been surrounded by friends, encouraged by his instructors. In this world, though, it was sink or swim. Bitty was getting paid good money to produce gastronomical art, alongside one of the best chefs on the continent. The pressure was on and, while Bitty had never been particularly good under pressure, he was determined to rise above this.

He had to.

Tasks completed, Bitty allowed his shoulders to slump, his eyed growing heavy with the thought of his warm, fluffy-blanketed bed. Feet dragging, he made his way to the break room to gather his belongings.

Bitty paused upon entering, a little startled to see Jack standing there with a hoodie and corduroy jacket on, seemingly waiting for him.

Jack never waited for him. Bitty was always the first to leave, and he assumed Jack just locked up shortly after.

“Goodness,” Bitty said, gaze dashing around the room so as not to fall on Jack too long. He made a beeline for his locker. “Are you waiting for me?”

“Yeah. If that’s okay.”

“Don’t be silly,” Bitty said, unearthing his jacket and slipping it on. “I’m just a little surprised. You always seem busy, even this late at night.”

“Not tonight.”

“That’s good,” Bitty said carefully, unsure of how to interact with Jack when they weren’t sniping.

Bitty draped his satchel over his head and adjusted the shoulder, finally looking up to meet Jack’s gaze with a brave, bright smile.  
  
“Ready to go?”

“Yup. Just going to lock up behind us.”

Bitty headed towards the back door, listening to Jack shut off lights through _Laurent’s_. What must it feel like to own your own restaurant? Probably like having a baby, Bitty thought. Lord knew if he had a bakery he’d be just as protective of it as Jack was. And he certainly wouldn’t want to waste his time or money on uninspired employees.

They both stepped outside, the brisk Boston air nipping at Bitty’s cheeks and no doubt turning them red right away.

Just as Bitty was struggling to figure out what to say, Jack’s deep voice cut in.

“You got a car?”

“Nah,” Bitty said, shoving his hands in his pockets, his cold mouth curving as he peered up at Jack in the yellow lamplight. It almost made a halo around his head. “I’m just five blocks away. I’ll walk.”

“I’ll drive you.”

Bitty immediately sputtered a nervous laugh and waved Jack away, taking a few steps in retreat.

“ _Drive_ me? Heavens no! I’m fine, I’m just fi -”

“You say that a lot,” Jack said, cocking his head to the side, openly studying him with that unnerving stare. “That you’re fine.”

“Well, I am,” Bitty said, jutting his chin indignantly. “But thank you for the offer.”

“If you say so,” Jack said with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Jack,” Bitty said softly, turning on his heel to leave.

“Hey.”

A frown pulling on his full lips, Bitty looked over his shoulder with a wrinkle in his brow.

“Yes?”

“You’re making progress,” Jack said, his face earnest. “Keep doing that.”

Bitty felt a weight lift from his chest. He inhaled a deep take of bracing air, exhaled a white plume into the night. And for the first time, he really smiled at Jack Zimmerman.

“Thank you, Jack. And thanks for your, um, training,” Bitty said, trailing off with a half laugh.

Jack’s stern mouth quirked in one corner.

“Yeah. Okay. Well, goodnight again.”

Bitty couldn’t stop grinning.

“Goodnight, again.”

Bitty practically floated all the way home. Maybe he could really make this work.

 

And by ‘make this work’, clearly Bitty meant: flail wildly until a hundred and fifty desserts appeared in front of him. And flail he did. He also, mostly, succeeded. At least Jack rarely yelled at him in the week following.

Bitty was stirring a literal vat of _Crème Pâtissière_ for the evening’s tarts when Jack approached him and looked down into the pot.

“Everyone is going out tonight.”

It was Sunday, and _Laurent’s_ was blessedly closed on Mondays. That tended to mean the entire crew went out and drank until they couldn’t feel feelings anymore.

Bitty slid a look Jack’s way.

“That’s what I’m hearin’.”

Silence, while Bitty continued to stir.

“You should go,” Jack said in a short rush of words.

Bitty raised his amused gaze to meet Jack’s.

“I should?” he asked, feigning innocence. He liked the idea of Jack attempting politeness here, when only last night he’d yelled across the kitchen, _Are you making desserts with your fucking feet over there, Bittle?_

Jack blinked, staring blankly at Bitty like he didn’t know what was meant to come next.

“I – yes? I can drive you home. I don’t drink.”

“Oh,” Bitty said, a little taken aback by the extent of the offer. “I mean, gosh, okay. Why not?”

“Good,” Jack said with a nod. Then, “Don’t overheat that.”

Bitty narrowed his eyes and huffed.

“First of all, how dare you. Second –”

“I’m kidding,” Jack said, his hands up in innocence. “Joking.”

Bitty let his mouth drop open in dismay.

“Well, I declare, Jack Zimmerman! I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Jack’s smile was brief as he turned away.

Bitty couldn’t help himself. He twisted the towel that had rested over his shoulder, flicked it out, and snapped it against Jack’s well-endowed bottom.

Jack looked over his shoulder, eyes wide with shock as he slapped his hand over his ass-cheek in defense.

“Da _yuuum_!” Ransom’s voice came from across the kitchen, accompanied by Holster’s laughter.

“Holy fucksticks, brah,” Shitty said from his spot, chopping and prepping _mirepoix_. “You just got stung by the itty Bitty honeybee.”

“How does it feel to be completely dominated?” Holster asked, unseen in the distance.

Jack just huffed a soft laugh from his nose and shook his head while he walked away, towards the office.

“Told you he’d get used to you,” Lardo said, hand-whisking five dozen eggs in a giant plastic bucket.

“Oh, I don’t know about all that,” Bitty said, keeping an eye on his custard. “Maybe it was me who had to get used to the way the great Chef Zimmerman works.”

Lardo’s reply was a wink.

 

“More shots for my dudes!” Ransom yelled at the skimpily-dressed bartender above the wild din of the bar.

“More shots for _this_ dude!” Bitty said, standing on the wobbly rung of his bar stool to gain height and attention. His giggled bubbled into full blown laughter at the idea of him _ever_ using the word ‘dude’ in earnest.

“Bitty's shit _faaaced_ ,” Shitty said, howling with laughter on the stool beside him.

“But I just _love_ this Tequila Rose stuff,” Bitty said, wavering from his precarious standing position as the room swirled. “Who showed me this – who did this tonight? And can I buy a bottle? Do they _sell_ bottles? It tastes like a strawberry milkshake!”

Bitty waved his arms around like a man lost at sea on a life raft. In actuality, Bitty was floating in a sea of sweet pink liquor, and his impossibly flimsy drinking constitution was his sinking raft.

“Yoohoo, lovely darlin’ with the not wearing a shirt! Hi, yes, can I buy a bottle of – _woop_.”

Gravity promptly tipped Bitty back into the crowd with a unanimous _OH SHIT_ from the entire _Laurent’s_ gang. Bitty’s head swirled and swam, spinning down the drain as warm, thick tree-trunks of arms caught him in a princess carry.

The entire bar cheered in an intoxicated uproar.

Dazed, Bitty licked his chapped lips and blinked up owlishly at his savior.

He found himself staring into thick-lashed eyes, gone deep blue in the shadows.

“Jack,” Bitty said on a relieved breath and a wide, easy smile. “It’s you. Hey. “

“Hi,” Jack said, staring at Bitty, unreadable as ever. “Are you okay?”

“I’m a lil’ tipsy,” Bitty said, squinting his eyes and bringing his hand up to squish his thumb and forefinger together like he were crushing a bug. “Just that much. Maybe a lil’ more.”

“A little more than that,” Jack said, his eyebrows travelling up towards his hairline. “Maybe it’s time to go home.”  
  
“Home?” Bitty said, visibly horrified – and still in Jack’s sturdy cradle. “But, _the karaoke_? I only got to do three Beyonce songs! And one Rihanna!”  
  
“That was four too many songs, believe me.”

Bitty gasped and pressed a hand to his heart, deeply offended.

“You are _rude_ , Jack Zimmerman. You kiss your mama with that mouth?”  
  
“If she was bad at karaoke? Yes.”

“Awful man!” Bitty struggled to find his feet, but the world tipping beneath his feet once more. He found himself in a fireman carry, looking down at the finest ass in Boston or the entire state. “Hey – what do you think you’re – let me – I don’t want to go home! Shitty – save me! Ransom, Holster? Don’t let him do –”

The bar door slammed shut behind them.

 

Legs crossed at the ankles, stretched out, with feet on the dashboard, Bitty sat in Jack’s passenger seat with his arms folded across his chest. Just to further project his displeasure.

“I don’t like you,” he said petulantly.

Jack didn’t say anything.

“That’s not true,” Bitty said, pressing his temple to the window and looking out at the empty night streets. “I actually like you. When you’re not being an absolute bee in my bonnet.”

“You’re getting very southern.”

“Well, ain’t that just a coincidence, considerin’ it’s where I’m from,” Bitty said with saccharine sweetness, looking at Jack from the corner of his eye. He didn’t want to make it obvious.

Thank goodness he’d looked, or he would have missed the slow, breathlessly charming smile that flitted crossed Jack’s face as he kept his eyes on the road.

“I like you, too,” Jack said simply. “When you’re not messing up service.”

Bitty gritted his teeth against a quip, because, even wasted, he knew Jack was in the right.

“Well – you’re a big ol’ grump, so there.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Jack said mildly.

“Talented as all get out, though,” Bitty said, shifting in his seat to smile fondly (read: drunkenly) at Jack’s noble profile.

“I’m trying.”

“Oh no, honey, you’re not _trying_. You’re _doing_. You are talent in…incarnate? Incapacitate? No, incarnate. I think. I mean, you’re _good_.”

“You’re talking about my dad,” Jack said, his voice stoic. “I’m just trying to catch up.”

“Maybe instead of catching up, you could make your own path,” Bitty said. He followed that up with finger guns and a click of his tongue. “Gotcha there, right?”

Jack swiped a look to Bitty, his mouth curving just a little.

“Yeah, you got me.”

A warm, languid feeling flipped in Bitty’s stomach, and –

No. No, that was definitely puke.

Bitty shoved open the door of the moving car and vomited all over the road.  
  


  
“You done in there?” Jack’s voice came, muffled through the bathroom door.

Bitty laid his cheek on his toilet seat and praised the good Lord that he was a neat and his toilet seat pristine.

“Think so,” Bitty said, and burped. Oh, he was a _vile_ creature. He would never live this down. “At least you didn’t have to hold my hair back.”

“That’s reserved for Shitty,” Jack said. “Can I come in?”  
  
“Or you could just go,” Bitty said, a wave of Tequila Rose Disaster encouraging him to lay his head on the blessedly cool tile. “Oh my goodness, that’s the stuff.”

The knob turned anyway and, looming in the doorway with a furrowed brow, was Jack. His boss.  
  
_Oh, dear._

“You’re my _boss_ ,” Bitty wailed, and pressed his cheek against the icy floor. “And I’m on the floor. Drunk as the day I was born!”

“I think that’s, naked as the day you were born.”

“Excuse me, sir, but I am _not_ naked!”

Jack pinched his nose between his fingers, massaging his closed eyes for a moment before he sighed.

“Let’s get you in bed, Bittle.”

“Can’t I just lay here?” Bitty said, shutting his eyes and welcoming the dark. “It’s so nice. So cool.”

“I’ll open the window in your room. Plenty cold outside.”

“I –”

Jack just wordlessly yanked him to his feet by the underarms, then proceeded to wrap an arm around Bitty’s torso and lead him away.

“Bedroom is, uh, well the only other room.”

“I gathered that.”

The bedroom was dark, and Bitty was glad to keep it that way. He stumbled some final steps to the bed and fell face first atop the duvet, clothes and all. He could hear Jack walking across the room and shoving open the window a crack.

Chilly autumn air kissed Bitty’s arms and the back of his neck. He sighed.

“Do you need me to stay?” Jack said, his voice a quiet rumble on the horizon.

“ _Muh-uh_ ,” Bitty said into the fluffy comforter. “You go. Thank you, Jack. Jacky. Jack-a-lack. Jack-a-lack-ding-don–”

The bedroom door shut just a little too loudly.

 

Tuesday passed without drama.

Inevitably, Bitty was heckled by his newfound friends and drinking buddies. Boy, did they have stories to tell about him – and to never forget.

But what surprised Bitty was Jack’s silence. When anyone badgered Jack on details, he simply stated that he'd dropped a drunk Bitty home and saw that he got into bed.

No puking out the car, or in the bathroom, or ranting on the floor – nothing. Like it never happened.

Bless Jack Zimmerman’s heart.

And not in the way they said in the south when they actually meant, FUCK ‘EM.

When Friday hit and there was still nothing, Bitty knew he had to find a good way to thank Jack. And there was really only one way he knew how. Desserts, dinner, the works. However, it would probably look all sorts of wrong if Bitty invited his boss out to dinner in his home.

Maybe if he invited the group, it wouldn’t look so strange. It would be a fun way to bond with them, minus the aid of unlimited flowing alcohol. Bitty did not need a repeat performance from himself – or a new one from anyone.

Smiling to himself, Bitty –

“ _Bittle_ ,” Jack’s voice practically shook the kitchen, “If I don’t see _soufflés_ in front of me within five minutes, you’re gonna make _fifty_ tonight!”

Maybe Bitty should invite everyone _except_ Jack.

 

“I’ll help you clean up,” Jack said, following Bitty to his tiny apartment kitchen with plates in hand. Behind them, Bitty could hear Shitty and Lardo guffawing while Holster and Ransom took turns interrupting each other in storytelling.

Dinner had been smooth and fun and comfortable. Bitty had sat at the head of the table, looking on with a perpetual smile as everyone dug into double-fried crispy chicken, old fashioned creamy mashed potatoes that were more butter than potato, collard greens, and biscuits with drizzled honey. There was nothing about _Laurent’s_ at his table. It had been Bitty through and through.

“That’s very kind of you, Jack,” Bitty said, turning and nipping the plates from his long, kitchen knife-scarred fingers, “But that’s not necessary. You’re the guest tonight. And when do you ever do dishes?” Bitty said with a wink.

“I’ve scrubbed one or two plates in my years,” Jack said, a small, natural curve of lips settling across his chiseled features. He trailed behind Bitty anyway, their hips bumping in the small confines of the kitchen. The room could fit four people at most, and just two with relative comfort.

“You made all that in here?” Jack said, a subtle shade of wonder coloring his tone.

“I have a system,” Bitty said with a laugh, setting the pile of plates in the empty sink. “I sometimes consider running a tiny pop up restaurants on the side, just out of my house. Itty Bitty’s Kitchen, y’know? Have a dinner party for a small group, make bank to save up for a bakery, and repeat.”

“Where would you find the time?” Jack said, sidling up beside him closely with a tea towel, ready to dry dishes. He smelled like fresh pine and Irish Spring soap.

“Mondays, I suppose. It’s the only day I’m free,” Bitty said, running the faucet, filling the sink with bubbly water.

“You wouldn’t have a single day off,”

“Do _you_ give yourself a single day off?” Bitty said, his smile mischievous as he peered up at Jack.

Jack’s gaze flicked from Bitty, out the tiny window before them, then back.

“Maybe.”

Bitty had to laugh. He bumped Jack’s arm with his shoulder.

“ _You_ work yourself to the bone. Don’t you worry about _me_.”

“You don’t come off as the type who enjoys overworking themselves.”

Bitty clicked his tongue in displeasure and made sure to bump Jack extra hard. It was like trying to push a mountain.

“Maybe it’s not necessarily in my nature… I’d be a fat housecat if I could. But I know what I want and I know how to get it. Just might take me longer than some.”

They washed and dried dishes in comfortable silence, looking at each other only to exchange smiles and eye-rolls at the ruckus going on in the other room.

“What about you?” Bitty asked, handing off a plate.

“What about me?”

“You gonna follow in Bad Bob’s footsteps? Not just the Michelin stars, 'cause that's a given. You gonna get your own darlin’ lil’ Food Network show – send men and women swooning at the television every week?”

“Maybe,” Jack said, surprising Bitty a little. “If the right opportunity opens.”

“Really?” Bitty said, with a delighted smile at Jack’s sober profile. “I would watch your show on repeat.”

Jack’s high cheekbones colored a little as he nipped a wet fork from Bitty’s hand.

Smiling to himself, Bitty busied himself with the utensils and wondered what in the world kind of cooking show Jack Zimmerman would host. He couldn’t imagine Jack just standing awkwardly behind a staged kitchen. Jack probably wouldn't feel comfortable addressing a camera alone, either. His own quiet charisma and slow smile required something to goad it forth.

“You’d be good at it,” Jack said suddenly, as they were finishing up.

Hands buried in bubbles, Bitty looked up, his mouth in a curious pout.

“Itty Bitty’s Kitchen,” Jack said, a faint flush staining his high cheekbones. “You give good dinner parties. You make everyone happy, comfortable. Good food.”

“Just good?” Bitty said with a wide, teasing smile.

“Maybe a little better than good,” Jack said, mouth curving.

“Well, now I’m just blushin’,” Bitty said, still smiling to himself, as he handed off the final knife and dried his hands off on a clean towel.

“Where do these go?” Jack asked, picking up a stack of plates and turning in a circle, eyeing the high cabinets as he went.

“Oh! Just –” Without thinking, Bitty squeezed between Jack and the counter top, reaching high to open up the right cabinet, since Jack’s hands were full. “I usually use a stool to –”

Jack reached up, the entire length of his body from hip to chest pressing firmly against Bitty’s back as he lofted the plates over Bitty’s head and into the cabinet. Jack’s body was hot and unforgivably muscle-hardened. Unable to stop the instinctive shiver that zipped down Bitty’s spine, he quickly spun around, only finding that this was an altogether worse position. Jack’s crotch was practically pressed against Bitty's stomach.

Praise Jesus, because Jack took a quick step in retreat, his eyes dancing around the room for a brief moment before settling on Bitty, his gaze just a little wide.

“Cramped,” he said, running a large hand through his thick hair.

“Goodness, yes,” Bitty said with a wobbly laugh, his cheeks burning. “Thanks for your help, Jack. Why don’t you step out with the rest and I’ll bring in the pecan pie shortly?”

“Yes,” Jack said, already turning to leave. “Great.”

After he’d gone, Bitty allowed himself a moment’s recovery period. Tightly gripping the edge of the counter, Bitty rode the passing wave of embarrassment. Although he didn’t have much experience with adult life jobs – surely one wasn’t supposed to be rubbing up against their boss in the kitchen. Accidentally or not.

“What’s done is done,” Bitty murmured to himself, straightening his clothes self-consciously.

He had a pie to show off.

 

“’Lo?” Bitty said, brain barely functioning as he answered the phone with his face still buried in the pillow.

“Bittle,” Jack’s deep, warm voice came through the phone. Made Bitty drift off to autumn nights around the fire pit. Cedar smoke, wood crackling, sparks popping, wrapped in a thick, knit sweater. Jack’s voice took him places.

“ _Bittle_.”

“Muh?” Bitty rolled over in bed and squinted up at the ceiling. It was still fucking dark out. “Time’s it?”

“Just past five. I get up to run at –”

“ _Jack_ ,” Bitty said, early morning frustration stinging his words, “What is going on? Why are you calling me at five in the morning?”

“I need you in this morning for lunch prep.”

“Aren’t I always,” Bitty said, rolling again and scowling into the pillow, not caring if his voice was muffled. He set the phone to speaker.

“And cook,” Jack said, pausing. “I need you to cook.”

“Wha –”

“Dex and Nursey are both down with that flu that’s been making it’s rounds and I don’t have enough hands in the kitchen for service.”

“I – uh,” Bitty said eloquently, his brain trying to catch up with what he was hearing. “You want me to cook. In your kitchen. Like, savory. Fine dining.”

“It’s almost like you’ve just realized where you work,” Jack said dryly from the other end. He hadn’t the right to be sarcastic with him this early in the morning! There was no fighting back.

“Are you sure about this, Jack?” Bitty said, panic rising in his throat at the prospect of fucking up peoples’ expensive meals. Sure, he had done well enough in culinary school, but Jack hadn’t trained him in any of his lunch dishes.

“Would I ask if I wasn’t?”

 _Ugh_. Of course he wouldn’t.

“But I don’t even know what –”

“That’s why I need you to come,” Jack said. “I’ll catch you up. Show you what you’ll be cooking. You’ll just be on sides. Even you can’t fuck this up.”

“Your confidence in me is heartening, honey,” Bitty said, yawning obnoxiously now.

“So get up, get ready. I want you here by seven to learn the dishes and then do prep with everyone from ten onwards.”

Seven in the morning. This was shaping up to be a sixteen hour day.

“You owe me.”

“That’s what a paycheck is for.”

“But, like, personally.”

Jack’s rumble of a laugh was unexpected and sent a pleasant hum down Bitty’s body.

“Earn it and _then_ I’ll owe you, Bittle.”

“Goodness, you really are a slave driver.”

“Couldn’t do it without you.”

This time it was Bitty’s turn to laugh. The things he did for this man.

 

Exhausted, Bitty was the last to finish clearing his station.  Even Chowder, their straight-out-of-high-school rookie dishwasher with big dreams of chef-hood, had finished putting away dishes and cutlery, and had said his goodbyes.

Once service ended, it was like Bitty went into low power mode. His tranquil country nature took hold and Bitty would take his gosh darn _time_ cleaning up, thank you very much.

Untying his apron and draping it over his head as he dragged his feet down the hall, Bitty hummed under his breath, his gaze naturally sweeping into the open doorway of Jack’s office.

He stopped when he saw Jack hunched at his desk, elbows propped up, with his face resting upon his balled fists as he stared down at a small orange pharmacy bottle.

“Um,” Bitty said, startling a little when Jack’s gaze snapped up, his bright eyes shadowed. “Are you – everything dandy in here?”  
  
“Dandy,” Jack said, monotone.

“Hm. Okay, well –” Bitty waved awkwardly. “Night, Jack.”

Jack didn’t even reply. He just stared at Bitty until he evacuated the doorway.

Bitty made it to the break room before he turned right on his heel and backtracked. He poked his head around the edge of the door.

“Hi. Um, again.”

Jack looked up, his gaze narrowed.

“Bittle. What is it?”

“You just seem, I don’t know,” Bitty said, walking into the room uninvited, twisting his fingers around each other. “Not okay. And I wanted to see if I could anything for you.”

Jack blinked at him once, slowly, staring.

“There’s nothing wrong.”  
  
Bitty’s attention flicked to the pill bottle, then back.

“Can I ask –”

“It’s not a big deal,” Jack said, enclosing the bottle in his large fist and shoving it in his pocket. “It’s for anxiety.”

Bitty frowned.

“Anxiety can be a big deal. Is there anything I can do tell help ease the stressload? Do you need me to start coming in earlier or –”

“No,” Jack said sharply. Then, a little softer with a shake of his head, “No. Thanks, Bittle.”

Looking up to Bittle, Jack gave a short shrug and leaned back in his chair.

“I just don’t like taking them. Pisses me off.”

“Oh,” Bitty said. He only had to approach a step to settle his hip on the edge of the desk. With one hand splayed on the scarred wood for balance, Bitty considered Jack carefully. “I’ve only known you for a handful of months, and most of that time is you yelling at me –”

“I don’t yell that much –”

“At anyone else, but me!”

Jack actually had the cheek to roll his eyes.

Bitty huffed a little breath.

“Anyway, I was going to say, knowing _you_ , you probably consider it a weakness.”  
  
To that, Jack didn’t have a reply.  
  
“But it’s not – y’know, darlin’? Have you looked in the mirror lately? Or at your achievements? You’re a _beast_ , Jack,” Bitty said with a laugh, ignoring the burning of his cheeks.  “If one little pill helps keep you working here with us, then I don’t rightly see why it needs to burn a hole in your pocket the way it seems to be.”

Jack stared for a moment, his mouth opening and closing faintly, like a fish out of water.

“That’s –” Jack swallowed, his brow furrowed, his eyes reminding Bittle of Georgia summer skies. “That was nice. Thanks, Bittle.”

“Yes, well.” For lack of anything better to do, Bitty glanced around the impersonal office. “Shame about this bland room, isn’t it? Could really use some wallpaper and white accents to –”

“Bittle.”

“Yes?”

“Go home, now.”

 

The lead-up to October meant Bitty’s first time at the menu brainstorming table. The last three months working with Jack had equated to strict orders on what desserts to make, with very little input from himself.

Bitty considered that maybe it was the visit to his home, eating his own food, which may have turned the tables in Jack’s mind. But somehow he got the impression that business was _all_ business for Jack, and the only way he may have altered Jack’s perception on his abilities was how he was starting to perform in _Laurent’s_ kitchen.

So, he came with a list, of course. He had ideas.

“So,” Jack said, head lowered at one of the dozen empty dining room tables as he jotted notes in a weathered leather journal. “Appetizer, _salade d’hiver avec une mousse au fromage de chèvre_. Mains –”

“Dude,” Lardo said with a drawn-out sigh, her arms crossed on the table, her back slumped forward. “English.”

Jack considered the table of Shitty, Lardo, and Bitty, tapping his pen against his pursed lips.

“I should really put you all in French lessons.”  
  
“ _NO_ ,” sounded in unison.

With a sigh, Jack leaned back in his chair, hands loosely folded atop his lap. His gazed winged over to Bitty, across the round table from him.

“Anyway, Bittle. Do you have thoughts?”

“Oh!” Bitty could feel his face heat with the sudden attention. He shifted through his satchel for the sheet of notebook paper he’d ripped out and randomly shoved inside. “Oh goodness, now where is –”

“Don’t have all day,” Jack said, his eyebrows raising slowly.

“Brah,” Shitty said, tilting back precariously in his chair, “We’ve been here over an hour since you decided on your shit!”

“I’ve got an entire menu to plan,” Jack said, his brow getting that perturbed wrinkle it did when he was challenged.

“Got it!” Bitty said cheerfully as he waved the crinkled paper in the air. “Alright, so,” Bitty paused, reading and worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. “Height of fall. I’m thinking one item light and fresh with surprise deep, warm, homey flavors, and the second piece as something classically heavy and rich.”

“Like?” Jack said, tapping the end of his pen on his notebook like a metronome.

“Like an apple _millefeuille_. Light pastry, Calvados liquor in the apple compote. Toasted caraway seeds on the puff for a little wake-up note. Touch of cinnamon in the _Crème Pâtissière_.”

Jack looked at Lardo and didn’t say anything.  Shitty was the first to whistle between his teeth.

“You really _did_ go to culinary school, didn’tcha kid?”

“It’s almost like I earned this job,” Bitty said with a smile and bat of lashes.

Lardo snorted a laugh.

“I like that,” Jack said suddenly, his face utterly composed as he wrote down the details in his notebook.

Bitty felt his chest swell with pride.

Jack looked up and met Bitty’s eyes.

“What else?”

 

The flu had finally caught up to him.

Sprawled along the length of his luxuriously plush maroon loveseat – there was no room in his apartment for a full sized couch, just a two seater – Bitty suffered beneath a crocheted afghan. Both cold and sweating, wearing boxers but a long-sleeved thermal top, Bitty deliriously watched his hundredth episode of _Millionaire Matchmaker_.

“When do _I_ get to marry a millionaire and have lots of botox?” Bitty whined and blew his nose, emitting the loudest goose honk in existence.

His apartment buzzer reverberated throughout the house and Bitty nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Who in the –”

It was easily at least eleven at night on a Wednesday. The only person ringing his bell at this hour would be someone trying to murder him. 

Bitty lurched from the couch, swaying in place as he blinked the black spots from his eyes. The buzzer sounded again.

“Lord Almighty, I’m a’comin’! People don’t know I’m under the weather and – Yes?” Bitty said, holding down the intercom button. “Who’s this?”  
  
“ _Brah_ – open up! The cavalry has arrived.”

“Shitty? O-okay,” Bitty said, for lack of anything better. “But don’t you dare judge me, mister. The place is a holy mess and I – oh, nevermind.”

Bitty buzzed him in.

Deciding he couldn’t bear to stand any longer, Bitty unlocked the door and left it open a crack. Without fanfare, he flopped face first onto the couch and didn’t move.

Seconds later, he heard chatter in the hallway – more than Shitty, it was Lardo, too – and the door creaked open.

“Damn,” Shitty said. “Bitty’s dead as fuck.”

“Wow, Bitty,” Lardo said, her undoubtedly booted feet sounding loud steps as she wandered the joined living and dining area. “You really let yourself go. I thought you were a neat freak but –”

“Then _you_ clean my house,” Bitty said, face still into the couch.

“Well maybe I will,” Lardo said with a short laugh. “That was actually kinda the plan. Whatever you needed.”

“Oh, no!” Bitty flung himself into a sitting position, his eyes wide and pitiful as he turned. “I wouldn’t actually want you to – _Jack_.” Bitty gaped, suddenly extremely aware of his half state of undress. “Oh _no_ , oh my goodness, you can’t be here.”

Shitty and Lardo could see him like this, but not his _boss_.

Jack raised an eyebrow and shifted a heavy-looking plastic bag from one hand to the other.

“Why?”

“Because, I am –” Bitty gestured to himself. “And you are –”

He waved frantically at Jack, his muddled, snot-filled brain unable to form anything more coherent than that.

Shitty laughed and dropped to the couch beside Bitty, flinging an arm around his shoulder, and bringing him in close for a violently affectionate snuggle. Apparently he was entirely unconcerned with getting the flu.

“Don’t worry about that guy. You should be thanking him anyway. This was his idea.”

“Shitty,” Jack said with a frown.

“Well, it was! And – _and_ ,” Shitty said, leaning in towards Bitty and dropping to a whisper. “He did something he never does for anybody for free. He _cooked_ for you.”

Bitty gaped at Jack, who shuffled his feet, his cheeks a little ruddy.

“Oh, _Jack_ ,” Bitty said, his voice going breathy and his heart soft. “That’s so sweet. _Thank_ you.”

“It’s not –” Jack aimed a gruff look Shitty’s wave. “It’s nothing. We just need you to get better so you can handle service again.”

Lardo snorted a laugh from the kitchen. From the sound of it, she was already washing dishes.

“All the same,” Bitty said, his gaze warming on Jack’s expression. “Thanks.”

There  was a beat of silence before Jack held up the bag.  
  
“Uh, it’s not my usual. I know you like trying new things. It’s Thai lemongrass soup. It has all the spice and good stuff for illness.”

“Oh, _Jack_ ,” Bitty said again, leaning his temple on Shitty’s shoulder and gazing up at him adoringly.

“Stop saying that,” Jack said, rolling his shoulders with apparent discomfort now. “I’ll just – I’m going to get a bowl out for you.”

He disappeared quickly into the kitchen, followed by the low, unintelligible murmur of Lardo’s voice.

“Oh!” Shitty said, wrapping a comforting arm around Bitty’s shoulder. “And I brought DVD’s.”  
  
“Seriously?”  
  
“Seriously. We all decided to make a night of it. Keep you company, help a bro out – you know how it goes.”

Bitty didn’t, actually. This was a first for him. All of this. He was flabbergasted by the kindness, and the friendship of these people. Even Jack. Especially Jack.

But Lord, did it feel good.

“You didn’t skimp on the TV did ya, brah?” Shitty said with a laugh as he lurched from the couch to approach the massive flat-screen on the wall and search out the remote controls.

“I like tech,” Bitty said, his cheeks darkening just as Jack emerged from the kitchen with a large, steaming bowl. To Bitty’s surprise, he sat down right beside him and handed over the soup.

“You’ll like it,” Jack said.

“I’m confident in your confidence,” Bitty said, unable to help his dizzy smile as he peered up to meet Jack’s sober eyes. “You’re a very good man, you know that, Jack Zimmerman?”

“Shit,” Jack said, cracking a small smile. “How many drugs are you on right now, eh?”

They all had a laugh – then laughed some more as Bitty attempted to coach Shitty through the DVD process of his television. Why was working someone else’s gadgets like learning how to walk for the first time?

In the end, Jack remained at Bitty’s side. Shitty and Lardo spread lush blankets on the floor at their feet, pilling up the pillows to lean back on as the four of them watched the latest _Fast and Furious_ movie.

Somewhere toward the end, Bitty drowsed.

When he blinked open his eyes at one point, he realized his face was buried in the crook of Jack’s neck. He still smelled like Irish Spring and the deep, dark forest.

“You always smell good,” Bitty murmured, his lips just brushing Jack’s jaw in his medicated, groggy state. “Always know when you’re lookin’ over my shoulder in the kitchen.”

Bitty had almost drifted back to sleep before Jack’s voice edged in on his consciousness.

“You smell like summer.”

 

The farmer’s market felt like some kind of Candy Land for chefs. Autumn squashes of all shapes and sizes spilled abundantly from crates and bushels. Apples piled high, the same colors of the changing leaves on the trees, cinnamon and clove carrying in the air with a warmth that cut through the chill.

Bundled in his pea coat and hand-knit scarf from his mama in shades of 70’s rust, marigold, and chocolate, Bitty happily trailed behind Jack, Lardo, and Shitty as they filled their reusable cloth bags with a bounty of goods for _Laurent’s_.

He enjoyed watching their interactions, and how Shitty’s boisterous nature brought out Jack’s smile. How Lardo’s short, straight-forward communication was a gateway straight to Jack’s mind – they understood each other on a level everyone else couldn’t.

Over the months, Bitty too had forged bonds with everyone – and was a happier man for it. Shitty was his go to buddy. He was easy to talk to, quick to empathize, and always had your back. Lardo kept him strong. Ransom and Holster reminded him how to de-stress and enjoy life.

Then there was Jack.

Bitty was still trying to figure out what they shared. They still bickered like alley cats in the kitchen – mainly because Bitty had to passive aggressively address every snipe aimed his way. And Bitty could still barely read Jack’s expressions, intonations, and so forth.

But Bitty made Jack smile. Shy, slow, secret smiles that no one noticed but him.

They could talk seriously about starting businesses, running and managing restaurants. They could talk about food, family, things they did – or didn’t get a chance to do – for fun.

By all accounts, they had grown into a pretty good working relationship.

Except that Bitty felt like he was being kept at an arm’s length, more than anyone else. Briefly, Bitty had entertained the idea that Jack was uncomfortable with Bitty’s sexuality. But Bitty knew well enough that Jack wasn’t the type to judge based off ridiculous requirements.

Mostly, it occurred to Bitty that he was just imagining it. And that they’d only known each other a quarter of a year. And that Bitty should just get the fuck over himself.

Yeah, that was more than likely.

He should simply be happy that his boss didn’t hate him anymore.

Bitty held back from the group, distracted by a fresh spice stand. Lips pursed in an ‘o’ of awe, his attention scattered in every direction, a bevy of new recipes flinging themselves in his eyeline.

Bitty’s brain mulled through a chai-scented cake, fragranced with cardamom, clove, peppercorn, ginger. Switch it up. Infuse the flavors in the custard of a _Crème brûlée_ or luscious _Crème caramel_. He could pitch the idea to Jack for –

“Daydreaming?” Jack’s voice murmured from beside him.

Bitty jumped and pressed a hand to his heart, looking up and laughing breathlessly.

“Gracious, you did give me a scare.”

“You were in spice world.”

“The movie? I wish.”

“What movie?”

“Oh, you poor, sweet soul.”

Jack stood by, hands in his pockets as he seemed to survey Bitty picking up and putting down glass jars, asking the vendor questions about where she procured her wares.

“You get so excited about everything,” Jack said.

Bitty smiled up quizzically, his brow a little scrunched.

“What is there to not be excited about? Look where we are. It’s a dream come true. I wish we could come here every day.”  
  
“It’s not even open every day.”

 Bitty laughed and lightly jabbed Jack’s side with an elbow.

“Oh, _you_.”

Jack’s cheekbones flushed in the cold air as he tucked his chin into the collar of his coat.

”What were you thinking about?”  
  
“When?”

“I don’t know. When you were thinking. Even from over there I could see your mind working,” Jack said, jerking his thumb to where Lardo and Shitty vocally argued with each other over butternut squash. A crowd was gathering.

Bitty’s mouth curved a little as he shrugged. Looking down, he skimmed his fingertips over the rows of spices.

“I was thinking chai _Crème caramel_. Warm, welcoming, simple, but still sexy."

“Sounds like something you’d make.”

“S’that right?” Bitty said, batting his long eyelashes up at Jack. He bumped his shoulder against Jack’s arm. “Still sexy?” Bitty said, with barely restrained laughter.

“Um.” Jack looked down at him, blinking a few times in quick succession. “I like your idea. The, uh, the chai.”

Bitty stared in surprise, his teasing nature falling to the wayside. His smile bloomed.

“Really? You really do?”

“I really do.”

Bitty allowed himself a little gleeful squeak from the back of his throat before turning to place his order.

“Maybe you can come to mine next Monday. If you’re free.”

Bitty handed cash to the vendor, his face angled to glance toward Jack with a frown.

“What for?”

“To test that recipe. It will probably take a few tries to get the spice balance right. We can test garnishes, too.”

“Wouldn’t _Laurent’s_ be the best test kitchen?”

That was what they always did, after all.

Jack scraped his palm across the shadow of stubble on his sharp jaw, his expression growing a little – displeased? Annoyed?

“Did you _want_ to spend your _one_ day off at the restaurant?”

“ _No,_ ” Bitty said quickly, chuckling to himself as he collected his change and said his thank-yous.

“Okay,” Jack said, leading Bitty away, his hand ghosting over the small of his back. “I’ll pick you up, then. Eleven? I’ll let you sleep in.”

“Gosh, you’re just full of good deeds today, aren’t you?” Bitty said with a grin.

“I’m a regular saint,” Jack said, deadpan, looking straight ahead.

Bitty couldn’t help but laugh.

 

“Oh my _goodness_ ,” Bitty moaned around the spoon, his eyes falling shut as he murmured obscene noises around the utensil he slipped from his mouth. “Oh, _Jack_ , you have to try. This is the one.”

Remaining at his spot, sitting upon the counter of Jack’s gloriously vast, pristine kitchen, Bitty scooped up a bite and offered the spoon to Jack.

Wordlessly, his attention unwavering from Bitty’s face, Jack took the spoon and tested the bite.

Jack’s eyes widened for a moment. He swallowed.

“That’s the one,” he said with a short nod, returning the spoon to the chai _Crème caramel_ for another bite.

“This is ridiculous,” Bitty said, grabbing the second spoon laid out and scooping a hefty bite. He moaned around that one, too. This was easily one of the tastiest creations he’d ever devised. And with Jack’s help, it was only better.

“We work pretty darn well together, don’t we, Boss?” Bitty said, smiling and splaying his hands on the counter beside either of his hips, his legs kicking back and forth cheerfully.

“Yeah,” Jack said, carefully setting down his spoon on the plate, his gaze still fixed on Bitty. “We do.”

Bitty cocked his head a little, his smile quizzical.

“What’s going on in that head? You don't like it after all? I have a heck of a time readin’ you.”

Jack leaned one hip and hand against the counter. His long fingers brushed the tips of Bitty’s.

“I think it’s been established over the years that I haven’t got much going on in my head at all.”

“Minus food.”

Jack’s lips quirked.  
  
“Minus food.”

Bitty scooted a little closer, their hands pressed flush against each other’s now. He could feel the heat of Jack’s body just inches from his thigh. Bitty’s expression grew soft and searching.

“So why do I get the feeling you’ve got something on your mind?”

Jack didn’t reply. He looked look at the plate on the counter.

“Jack?” Bitty scooted his face a little closer. “I know we haven’t known each other too long, but you know you can trust me, right?”

“I do trust you,” Jack said, looking up. “That’s the thing.”

“What thing?” Bitty said, frowning.

“This thing."

Jack leaned in and captured Bitty’s mouth in the gentlest kiss.

Bitty’s eyes shot open before they fell shut, a dizzying wave of pleasure persuading him to lean in. Jack’s tongue, almost tentative in its slowness, flicked at the corner of Bitty’s mouth, a zing of heat shooting straight to Bitty’s core.

With a sigh, Bitty flung his arms around Jack’s shoulders, pulling Jack’s body between his spread thighs as the kiss opened, deepened, welcomed Jack into Bitty’s warm, wet mouth. The short, sweet whine of desperation from the back of Jack’s throat would have gone unnoticed had it not been for Bitty’s hyper-sensitized state.

Because _everything_ was Jack.

Large – god, he was so _big_ – hands skimmed up Bitty’s thighs, gripped at his hips and yanked him close. Close enough that Bitty could feel the searing length of Jack’s arousal pressed between his legs. Bitty whimpered, his fingers tangling in Jack’s thick, luscious hair, and dove his tongue into Jack’s waiting mouth.

They clashed, warred, and surrendered to each other, hands growing frantic over each other’s bodies. Bitty’s legs wrapped around Jack’s waist, clung to him, hips grinding mindlessly against Jack’s stomach to the chorus of their heavy, staccato breaths.

Jack broke their kiss, and Bitty only caught a glimpse of burning blue eyes, before Jack had buried his face in the crook of Bitty’s shoulder and inhaled deep. He exhaled, shaky, lungs stuttering. Bitty’s fingertips trailed the nape of Jack’s neck, slowing as he leaned in a pressed a kiss to Jack’s ear with swollen lips.

With a faint tremble to Jack’s legs, he splayed his palms on the countertop, leaning heavily into Bitty’s embrace. Bitty dropped his legs back down with a long, sweet sigh, his hand painting long, relaxing strokes down and up Jack’s back.

“I –” Bitty swallowed, his voice low and hoarse, unexpected. “I didn’t realize that this was a thing.”

“It’s a thing,” Jack said, taking another breath – very obviously smelling him. “It’s been a thing.”

Bitty’s hands found Jack’s outrageously thick arms, and trailed down the sculpted muscle.

“Goodness,” was all his frazzled brain could say.

“You’re not freaking out,” Jack said, not pulling back to look at Bitty.

Brows shooting up, Bitty held Jack’s shoulders and eased him back, just enough to force their eyes to meet.

Jack’s face was utterly and charmingly red.

“No,” Bitty said, considering Jack’s embarrassment with affectionate eyes. “I’m not freaking out.”

“You knew?”  
  
“I definitely didn’t know,” Bitty said flatly, his expression humorless. “Did not. How on God's green earth would anyone know with you?”

“You couldn’t tell?” Jack said, looking almost relieved.

“Was I _supposed_ to be able to tell, Jack?” Bitty said, utterly flabbergasted now, and laughing with it.

Eyes wide and searching, Jack straightened a little, his hands rising to cup Bitty’s cheeks in his palms.

“I like you,” Jack said.

If there was anything Bitty could be sure of, it was that.


End file.
